


Under My Skin (I can feel your heat)

by kuro49



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, McFassy Spring Fest 2012, i don't know anything about film making, it's a character galore!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a squint-to-see-McFassy fic for the McFassy Spring Fest, prompt 20.</p>
<p>Michael has a habit of getting rather 'method' about his roles, i.e. really getting into the headspace of his characters, and it's up to James to bring him out of it. (I'm sort of thinking of the Brandon or David - or maybe even Erik - characters here, but it's really up to the writer!)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael films Shame and Brandon clings. But before that, there is Erik and David 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under My Skin (I can feel your heat)

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I didn’t actually watch Shame, neither did much research went into timelining this fic. Also I hope OP don’t mind because for a McFassy fic, Brandon, David 8 and Erik all pop up in here.

The last day of filming happens on a Tuesday.

And when they finally escape, it’s six minutes to midnight.

Michael offers him a ride back home, hand already rummaging in his back pocket for the keys.

“Trust you to know when a Scot is drunk out of his mind, Michael.” James laughs and leans against his friend, pressing from shoulder to hip as they make their way across the parking lot. Michael gives him a grin, one that James feels more than he can actually see in the dark. “Nah, no one else. Just you, James.”

“You sure know how to charm a man, Michael.” He wags his eyebrows in the most obscene manner that he can manage in his drunken state, easier said then done he wants to claim. And Michael only laughs as he manhandles him into the passenger seat.

“There you go.”

Michael grins as he slams the side door shut and walks around the front to the driver’s seat.

And when he gets in, he only sees James sitting just the way he has left him, lips a bruised red under the parking lot lights that turns a smile into laughter as his eyes catches sight of the other man.

Michael reaches over for the seatbelt, grabbing at thin air in the dark as James’ puffs of laughter caress the ends of his hair, each amused huff ghosting a tremor down his spine. Michael almost gives a shout of triumph when his fingers grasp the seatbelt to pin the other man in his place.

But before he could drag it over James’ torso, the Scot already has his arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him secured to his chest. Ear pressed up against his heart just before his fedora falls to James’ feet.

“Hmm…” And Michael can hear the murmur, low in his throat, erupt from the depths of the Scot’s chest.

Despite the shirt, he can feel the warmth of an alcohol-buzzed body, pressed up against his. “James?”

“Hmm…?” James tightens his hold and it makes something strange rise to Michael’s throat. But this isn’t the first time, he only hopes it’ll be the last, knowing but not sure enough to pin a name to the feeling that has long since surfaced.

“You have to let go of me, McAvoy, otherwise we’ll be here all night.”

“Not so bad, don’t you think?”

And he wants to tell James that no, it really isn’t a bad idea at all. But Michael keeps his silence and waits until there is a reluctant sigh and fingers that touched and lingered at the nape of his neck, wanting and refusing to let go.

Michael tugs at James’ shirt, fingertips brushing along the man’s ribs and it is only with another sigh that James loosens his grip, allowing the other to finally pull back.

“Michael!” James’ eyes lit up with wonder and delight like he hasn’t seen his friend in a very long time. “There you are!”

Michael wonders whether James has hit his head when he hasn’t been looking or whether it is just the drunk talking but at the stretch of those lips, the grin that is exclusively for him, he nods his head and brush the unruly dark bangs from James’ eyes.

“Yeah, I’m right here, you mad Scot.”

 

Before taking on the character of Erik Lehnsherr, he had no one else. With Erik, however, he met James. And the man is keen on making him drop the act.

 

Michael hasn’t realized then, he only knows now, when most, not all, is said and done. Because James insists they catch a break at every moment available, whether it is after a long shoot for a wild drive in the director’s golf cart, or even in between shoots when Matthew hasn’t needed them, James will drag him by the arm, to his trailer, a corner of the room, and hush whisper to him about everything and nothing, laughing when things get silly and grinning sheepishly when they both know he is full of bullshit but always saying Michael, Michael, _Michael_ Fassbender at the end of each sentence.

Like he is reminding him who he is. That is a costume, Erik is not you, so please, come back.

 

Michael smiles to himself and starts the car.

000

Michael Fassbender is a methodical actor, has been since the very beginning of his acting career and will be for as long as he does this job and he thinks it will be a long long time before he gives this up. Because it is the only way he knows how. When he runs by the script once more, the words cling and like a well-rehearsed play, he steps out from behind the camera, sheds the skin Michael himself is comfortable with and shrugs on another one.

Except this one is harder to take off because it is such a close fit.

James knows first-handily.

Because when he turns around at the end of the day, his eyes are hard and the undercurrents of anger and pain are still tightly knitted to a degree no one dares to try to untangle the mess. And that is not Michael Fassbender, rather the man who has turned his hard eyes to fall on him is Erik Lehnsherr, the man in the printed script with the unbearable past.

“Michael.”

But James refuses to ignore what he can blatantly see. He follows the man when he doesn’t give any sign of even hearing the call of his name. James pushes through the trailer door without knocking because he doesn’t want the other man running again.

“Michael?”

Michael is lying back against the sheets of an unmade bed at the end of the trailer, he doesn’t lift his head when James walks in. He only allows a soft hiss of air to escape his mouth and it resembles a yes with a question mark at the end of it.

“Are you doin’ alright?” He walks through the narrow hall, pass the tiny bathroom on the left before bumping knees with the end of the bed. James looks down and Michael stares up at him with something close to vulnerability.

“…I’m not in control.”

The confession is soft, near silent.

James nods and sits down on the bed, nudging Michael to move with a wiggle of his hips against the sheets.

“That’s what makes you a great actor.” He lies down along side of him and their shoulders touch, brushing but not pushing.

“Sometimes.” Michael pauses in his words, tongue suddenly too thick to articulate as he stares blankly up at the ceiling of his trailer. “And sometimes I can’t switch off.”

James smiles, thinly, understanding but not quite either.

Because he too is an actor but his way with his characters is different. Still, one thing remains definite. James turns on his sides and waits with a silent expectation until Michael does the same. And when he smiles, there is a distinct subcutaneous comfort that warms them both. “No one expects you to be in control though, Michael.”

 

He doesn’t register a thing at first and although there is no self-blame, the concern is much greater than he has anticipated. This friendship, and at this James can’t help but furrow his brows and he can’t tell why, meant a great deal, not just to the film’s success but also to the kindness they have developed outside of the set.

No, James doesn’t realize a thing at the start because it doesn’t show like a prominent thorn at his side with blood trailing every step Michael takes.

Rather it seeps out in subtle details.

 

“Well,” James tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling with a bashful second that makes Michael wonder whether his mood has bleed over, “if it helps, I can cry on cue.”

And James’ grin only ever widens when Michael can’t help but laugh out loud at his sudden declaration, body bent towards him, smile genuine, and reminding him nothing of Erik Lehnsherr.

000

But that has been Erik and James has been there with him to see the entire evolution. With everyone else, however, they come and go. And when the final promotional interview for _X-Men: First Class_ happens, James can’t bite his lip and hold his tongue any longer.

Because with _X-Men_ ’s filming, he has learned, and now he knows. Unlike Erik however, Michael has been distant with David 8. Listening and smiling but not quite engaging, not like James is used to at the very least and it is like he has been alone for too long and these emotions come through to him only second handed.

He hasn’t known who David 8 is, he hasn’t even known the film has been _Prometheus_.

So instead, James bodily corners the other after they are let out of their chairs and the final interviewer has left the set.

“How’s the film?”

James is looking up at Michael with something akin to a stern stare.

“Which one?”

Michael’s eyes are void of the anger James is used to seeing from Erik, as Charles. Instead everything feels like steel. James crosses his arms, narrows his eyes and pressures the other into talking, saying anything that reminds him of the man from before the films.

“The one that you can’t talk about but requires your ginger locks to go blond.”

“… It’s alright.”

 

And for nights after, James doesn’t quite bring the topic back to speaking terms but everything they say underlies that. He doesn’t quite force Michael to talk through the phone but it cuts close. Because sometimes, his knuckles go white with frustration when he tries to wait through those silences when Michael is trying to get his words out of his head. And James only allows himself to prompt the other when David 8’s voice becomes more prominent than Michael’s own.

He tries not to let that get to him because every tiny victory counts, James reminds himself.

000

The quickest way Michael knows how to drop a character is to adopt another. With a merciless schedule, one film practically overlaying another, Michael will be Carl Jung, Erik Lehnsherr, then David 8, and then Brandon Sullivan, a seamless change from one man into another. But none really Michael Fassbender himself.

They all try to stay behind, even after the filming.

But each character cuts closer and closer until finally, Michael Fassbender takes on Brandon and Brandon clings like a second skin that refuse to fade.

 

They film on a tight schedule. 8 weeks of _Shame_. 25 days of filming. He doesn’t shake Brandon off even though the man is self-destructive and horrible in nature. And the camera never seems to shut off.

Michael sees Steve behind the camera, catches the glint of glass lens, the bright glare ahead and it all falls away.

He sheds off the robe, hands it off to an assistant they always have hovering next to him and walks on set where the expensive apartment’s cold tiled floors lay flat against his bare feet and every wall is made of sharp white plaster.

His eyes don’t flicker to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows because this is his home (and by him, it isn’t Michael, it hasn’t been Michael for a long time) and nothing should surprise him anymore. Still he feels, he hears, he tastes and knows a great deal but this is Brandon and addictions are a horrible thing.

 

James doesn’t ask, partly because he doesn’t want to know but also because he knows just the same. And this time, he doesn’t call.

He merely sends him a text.

_Let’s have a drink. 9:30pm. Your favorite place because I know you that well._

 

They sit side by side in a secluded corner of the bar and the pass of alcohol between the two of them is both their hello and their how’ve you been. Michael’s shoulders are hunched forward as he takes the bottle from James’ outstretched hand and he tosses his head back as he takes a swig.

“Come on, James.”

He says as he places the near empty bottle back to the tabletop where James is leaning on his elbows and frowning at him with his brows furrowed.

“Don’t be like that.”

His Scottish friend looks as though he wants to say something but the words never reach his lips because he swallows that final gulp from the bottle, lips wrapped around the mouth of the glass, tongue swiping for the last drop.

And Michael only smiles. But it is just a simple stretch of the muscles around his lips. Nothing more than to please those who are looking to see a reaction. And James isn’t looking for anything but an old friend in hiding.

“I,” he peeks at him in the horrible lighting of the room, “I wish I could say the same thing to you too, Michael.”

He doesn’t know how much of his pure wish and want gets through to him. But he doesn’t dare hope, because then, it would be too easy. James continues.

“But you can’t, can you?” He cocks his head at him and he is suddenly bolder than he has been all his life. “You let them take you without a fight.”

Blue eyes narrow as his heart clenches in his chest. Because he knows exactly what this means. And he is too weak to fight it.

“But you see don’t you, Michael? You want to give them a chance but you know they will take it and run with it until you are abandoned somewhere in the middle.”

It is sudden but not entirely unexpected because it doesn’t steal the air from their lungs when James’ hands cup at Michael’s face, bringing him closer, but not quite.

“I—” Michael shuts his eyes and breathes with his mouth, each puff of air ragged and drained, each breath like hot brands on James’ face. He wants to try again but only succeeds in cutting himself off halfway through. “It’s not—”

“Michael.”

His hands don’t fall away completely but the clutch James has on him is not harsh or demanding. He simply wants to know, and it shows.

“Come on, open your eyes.”

He follows his command and that single beer runs wild in their veins when blue eyes meet twin swirls of grey and blue and green. James sees something he hasn’t wanted to admit to so when he smiles, it is something sad and small.

“I know, it’s Brandon.”

James lets go of his face, fingers grazing at the stubbles of his chin before he completely pulls away. Michael looks at the empty bottle sitting between them before calling for another round as they sit in silence.

 

It isn’t until four more bottles of beers for the each of them that they can finally look the other in the eye without feeling drained and dejected. But it goes without saying that he wants to be there for him even when he can’t. Michael gives James a faint sigh as his only warning before he lets his head to drop to James’ shoulder in defeat because he can’t do this without him.

His final defence gives way to the press of heat. Because underneath their skin, the blood rushes in the same veins and their tears all fall from the same place.

“Michael?”

“Yes, James?”

“Try a romantic comedy why don’t you?”

There is a stifled snort of quiet laughter that earns Michael an elbow to the side.

“…Will you be my co-star then?”

Michael asks as he glances up with a light grin and James could only ever return it with his own brand of cheeky Scottish charms. His lips quirk up in amusement when all he sees is Michael Fassbender looking back at him.

(None of those look-alikes that could never fool him into giving out his heart that completely. But that has always been a given.)

“Only if you be a gentleman and ask nicely, Michael.”

XXX Kuro


End file.
